Night Terrors
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly's having nightmares. Can Sherlock help? Sherlolly


Dr. Molly Hooper, chief pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital, London, had just finished sewing up the body cavity of a thirty-four year old drug dealer done in by a dissatisfied customer and was snapping off her latex gloves, when, inconveniently as ever, Sherlock Holmes burst through the doors of her morgue, bearing a small bag and a superior attitude.

"Sherlock, I hadn't expected to see you today. I'm just getting ready to leave," Molly said, hoping he would get the hint and not expect her to hang around to assist him as she had just completed a double shift and was looking forward to a relaxing evening at home. But Sherlock stayed glued to the seat he had taken at one of the lab stools. "Well, then, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Molly surrendered to the inevitable.

"Cockroaches!"

Molly had learned to expect the odd request every so often from the world's only consulting detective. She had supplied him with livers, spleens, kidneys, the occasional heart, lungs (in pairs and separately), dozens of toes and fingers, and one gall bladder.

"Cockroaches, Sherlock? This is a highly respected medical facility. We don't have cockroaches."

"Not here. Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson claims we have giant, mutant cockroaches! She's blaming my experiments, for some reason. Who does she think I am? Dr. Frankenstein? Anyway, she's having the place fumigated. It will be unfit for human habitation for at least twenty-four hours. She's hightailed it off to Brighton for the weekend."

Molly was beginning to get an uneasy feeling about the situation.

"And you're planning to spend the night among the frozen corpses?" she asked hopefully.

"Stop being deliberately obtuse, Dr. Hooper. I plan on coming home with you, of course."

"Why me, Sherlock. Surely John and Mary can put up with you, I mean, put you up, for one night?"

"Mary has informed me that one petulant child is more than enough to try her patience, and suggested that I grace you with my presence."

"Mary's idea, huh. I'll have to remember that."

Sherlock was growing bored with the witty banter. When it came right down to it, he knew that he was more than welcome at Molly's flat, and Molly knew it, too. He picked up his small bag and accompanied her to the door. "Come on, Moll. We'll pick up some takeaway on the way home. I'm hungry."

Molly liked the way he referred to her flat as "home". Once again, he was invading her space, her life, and, most especially, her heart. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

They had stopped for Indian food, and had shared it while sitting on the couch in Molly's sitting room, washed down with her cheap red wine. Sherlock, of course, would have preferred a superior vintage, but, for a change, kept his disparaging comments to himself. He had changed a lot since his return from the dead a couple of years ago. He had always been kind when it occurred to him to be. It just never occurred to him very often. He was much more in touch with his feelings, cliched though that might sound, as well as the feelings of others. He still was inclined to be arrogant, egotistical, and overbearing, but in a slightly nicer way, tending to become embarrassed when he knew he had taken things too far. Apologies were still few and far between, but at least now they were an occasional part of his repertoire.

After dinner, Sherlock suggested they play Scrabble, which ended badly. Sherlock had a habit of making up words, and passing them off as real ones. He usually got away with it, as people tended to be amused by his convoluted attempts at imaginary definitions. On this occasion, he spelled out the word "gruntled", using a triple word score. Molly challenged, as usual, but he explained patiently that it was a perfectly acceptable word, the opposite, of course, of "disgruntled". Having had enough of his bending of the English language to suit his needs, Molly grabbed her laptop. For once, Sherlock had not been cheating. It really was a word, a back formation from "disgruntled" first used in the 1930's. Sherlock thought she was taking her defeat rather well until she tipped over the Scrabble board. He became very disgruntled.

"Let's watch videos," Molly suggested, "I have a scary one about zombies."

"Why should you be afraid of zombies. You work with the dead all day long!"

"Okay, so this one has Brad Pitt in it. I confess. Brad Pitt does not scare me."

"I have some reading to do, Molly. You go ahead and indulge your fantasy about Brad Pitt. I need to borrow your laptop."

Molly sat on the couch, now eating ice cream and becoming absorbed in the potential zombie apocalypse unfolding on her telly. And Brad Pitt. She glanced occasionally from Brad to Sherlock, comparing them. In her mind, and her heart, Sherlock always came out on top. As the evening came to a close, the world had been saved, the ice cream consumed, and Molly ignored by the detective sitting next to her.

"Well, Sherlock, I'm going to get ready for bed. The spare room is all ready for you."

"You know I hate the spare room. The bed is full of cat hair! I'll be fine on the couch," he replied, barely taking his eyes from the computer screen.

"Suit yourself."

Molly trudged to her bedroom, then shuffled through her bureau drawers for nightwear. She grabbed her usual pair of baggy shorts and equally baggy t-shirt, comfy but hardly lust-inspiring, and headed toward her bathroom to shower. Before she could reach the door, she was headed off by her guest.

"Molly, you take forever in there. I'll just pop in first. Maybe you could make some tea before you retire?"

Tea! The man always wanted bloody tea! Well, it would give her something to do while she waited for him to reappear. Molly finished brewing just as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. He was wearing pajama bottoms, black silky ones that hung low on his waist. No top. His dark curls were askew all around his face, and he had shaved. Shaved! She had no idea what Brad Pitt truly looked like up this close and personal. but she knew he couldn't hold a candle to Sherlock bloody Holmes. He thanked her for the tea, smiling and even winking. What the hell was that?

Molly made a return trip to her bedroom, and was soon rummaging through her top drawer for a seldom used set of pj's consisting of lavender tap pants which fit low on her hips and were trimmed with lace at the hem. The matching camisole top featured matching lace across the bodice, and left her midriff exposed. Turn about is fair play, she thought!

When Molly came out of the bath, she walked slowly into the kitchen, ostensibly to get herself a glass of water. Sherlock looked up at her, then returned to the laptop. But his eyes quickly flitted back to Molly as she made her way to her bedroom. Her outfit certainly covered all the essentials. It was the way it covered them that Sherlock found fascinating. He smiled as he returned his eyes, but certainly not his attention, to the computer screen. Molly gently closed the door to her room, whispering good-night to her guest, and smiling attractively.

Sherlock was leaning back on the couch, unbeknownst to Molly, plotting his next move. He wasn't really good with women, and he was hoping that, given the opportunity and her long-standing infatuation, this particular woman would make the first move. But an hour had passed since she had closed the door, and he was beginning to give up hope. Besides that, he was beginning to get chilly sitting there in nothing but flimsy pajama bottoms and no shirt. He doubted the sight of a grown man sitting on her couch wrapped in a hand crocheted, multi-colored afghan would inspire desire. The chill was beginning to win when he heard her scream from the next room.

He almost knocked the door off its hinges as he burst in. 'Molly! Are you alright? What's the matter?"

She seemed to be really upset, so he folded her in his arms, forgetting his chill, his plans, and everything else as concern for his Molly overcame him. She seemed to be sobbing and trembling, so he held her closer.

"I had a terrible dream," she gasped. "Zombies! Every time I close my eyes, I see zombies. I'm so afraid to go back to sleep."

Sherlock rubbed her back and made comforting sounds into her ear.

"Could you stay with me, Sherlock? Just until I get back to sleep?"

"Of course." he said, climbing in next to her, still holding her in his arms. _Well,_ he thought, _I'm no longer cold! In fact, I seem to be getting warmer by the minute!_ Molly snuggled into his chest and sighed contentedly. He really wanted to make a move, but felt guilty. The woman was obviously frightened! Perhaps now was not the time. He could wait.

Molly couldn't believe that she had gotten him into her bed so easily! But that was only half the battle. She pushed herself closer to him, her arms around his waist. This was just so comfortable, and comforting. She would simply relax here for a while, breathing him in, and letting her mind drift. Unfortunately, fatigue from her double shift in the lab kicked in at precisely that moment, and within minutes she was snoring quietly in his arms.

Sherlock noticed the change in Molly's breathing patterns, not to mention the telltale snores, and knew that he had missed his chance. Not wishing to disturb her any further, and thinking that sometimes a strategic retreat was necessary, he extricated himself from her arms and went back to the couch.

It was less than an hour later when Sherlock was rudely jolted from his mind palace by another yelp from Molly's room. But the time spent in that mind palace had not been wasted. He had reviewed the events of the earlier incident in minute detail. His pathologist had supposedly been frightened badly by a nightmare, but her pulse and breathing had been remarkably normal. Until he had taken her into his arms and lay down next to her. Had her eyes been open, he certainly would have seen the telltale dilation of her pupils. Molly had made her move, and he, naive as he was to the subterfuge of the opposite sex, had missed it. But, arrogant bastard that he undoubtedly was, he now knew her intentions, and sensed that he had the upper hand. He couldn't resist making her suffer just a little, and took his time responding to her call.

"What is it, Molly? Another bad dream? Zombies again?" Sherlock couldn't resist adding a touch of disbelief to his tone.

Molly, intelligent woman that she was, knew instantly that he was wise to her, and tried to recover by tweaking the plot just a bit. "Vampires!", she muttered, "Oh my god, the blood was everywhere!" She tried to sound pathetically frightened, but even she knew she wasn't carrying it off very well.

"Oh, you poor darling. Let me take care of that." Sherlock practically purred from the doorway. But instead of entering the room, he retreated to the kitchen, grabbed a bulb of garlic from a basket on her counter, and, returning, tossed it to her. Molly caught it just as she saw Sherlock turn on his heel and leave. "Sweet dreams!" he said with a smirk over his departing shoulder.

Sherlock plopped back down on the couch and wrapped the tacky afghan around his shoulders. She was probably mad as hell by now. If he was going to spend the night alone on the couch, there was no use being cold. But a few minutes later his thoughts were interrupted by a truly bloodcurdling scream. As it seemed genuine, he leapt madly from the couch, and burst through the bedroom door.

"Molly, are you…"

Molly looked really distraught as she buried her face in her hands. "Another dream, Sherlock. It was terrible! They were horrible. Oh, my god! I thought I'd never get away from them."

Sherlock couldn't decide if she was faking or not, but at least she was talking to him. He approached the bed, and sat down, pulling her hands from her eyes, checking to see if the tears were for real. He wasn't all that surprised to find that they weren't.

"Okay, Molly. I give up. What horrible things were you dreaming about now? Werewolves? Mummies? Swamp beasts? A bloody sharknado?" He spoke with a slight laugh in his voice.

"Far worse, Sherlock. Consulting detectives!"

Sherlock Holmes laughed loudly, shaking his head. "Well, you're correct in one respect," he then whispered as he gently pushed her back onto the bed, and buried his face in her neck, "You're not likely to ever get away!"

Molly made contented sounds as his lips traveled from her neck to her ears, and eventually her mouth.

"Yes, Molly, consulting detectives can be a real danger. Much more real than zombies or vampires!"

"Or even fabricated mutant cockroaches on Baker Street!"


End file.
